


Too Much Time in Your Own Company

by Catchclaw



Series: Mental Mimosa [66]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Space, Escort Service, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-28
Updated: 2018-06-28
Packaged: 2019-05-29 21:04:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15081707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catchclaw/pseuds/Catchclaw
Summary: Space is a lonely ass place.





	Too Much Time in Your Own Company

**Author's Note:**

> Prompts: Escort AU And Space AU. Prompts from this [generator](http://colormayfade.tumblr.com/generator).

Space is a lonely ass place.

Everybody had told him that before he left--not in so many words, maybe, but a common thread among his friends, his colleagues, his shrink had been something to the effect of _you sure you wanna spend that much time in your own company_? To anybody that had known him for a while, anybody it trusted, it was apparent that sometimes, the inside of his own head was his worst enemy.

But he’d assured everybody (and himself) that yes, he knew what he was doing and no, it wasn’t like he’d be by himself all the time. Business would keep him within the aligned worlds network 95% of the time and most of that time would be spent in the most populous cities and colonies from Titan to Shi'ar; hell, as many beings as he’d have to gladhand, as much multilingual chit chat as he’d have to engage in just to turn a profit, he’d probably be aching for peace and quiet, for the succor of silence, soon enough.

Which was true, to a point. There were solar days when he came back to his hotel pod in the evening exhausted, his tongue numb from too much talking and his ears ringing with the sound of other beings’ voices. Nights like that, he was grateful for it, being alone, because if he’d had a partner or two to come back to, they would’ve found him worn out, a washcloth rung out so hard he’d run dry.

There were other days, though, other nights, like this one, when the emptiness of his pod ate at him, when he looked out of the viewport at the vast, gorgeous spin of the station and felt like he didn’t exist, like he was a fly buzzing around the edges of some other being’s life. It didn’t matter what he did or who he spoke to; how much business he’d done up for the folks back home, how happy today’s sales would eventually make his company’s board. Sure, his assistant back home could pull up his tracker and know precisely where he was at this exact instant but it felt like not a soul on this station, in this entire section, would give a damn.

He sat down on the bed with a sigh and rubbed at his face with both hands. _Time to face it, Stark_ , he said to himself. _You’re lonely_.

So he did something he hadn’t done since he was a kid, practically, since he was nineteen going on know-it-all: he waved up the hotel’s house comms and ordered an escort.

He wasn’t overly particular in what he asked for because he wasn’t thinking about fucking, exactly; what he wanted was somebody to talk to, and tonight, that meant somebody Terran. He’d been speaking Quo Modari all day and as beautiful a tongue as it was, it was also hard on his brain and his vocal cords; he’d have a headache and be hoarse for a few days at least. Terran, then, and--he blushed a little, scratched at the gray in his beard--younger than him. With dark hair and a pretty face.

Hey, there was no rule that he couldn’t have a companion who was easy to look at as well as witty and appropriately verbose.

He cued the request to his private account, not the company’s, because the last thing he needed was the chairman of his board bringing it up at some inopportune moment in some feeble attempt to embarrass him. Even after all these years, Stane had yet to grok that in most things, Tony was well beyond shame. Still, his personal life was just that, personal, and if he wanted to blow too many credits on a couple of hours of paid conversation, that was nobody’s business but his own.

He hauled himself to his feet and made a quick effort to clean himself up: two minutes in the ‘fresher, a clean set of clothes, a self-indulgent spray of the cologne his assistant had given him last year as a semi-joke. Semi because zur knew it was his favorite; joke because zur found the smell odious and had forbade him from wearing it with five klicks of the home office. The only place such a stench was safe, zur had said, waving several tentacles for emphasis, was in the airless vacuum of space.

He’d just stepped back into his slippers when the chime sounded and the escort agency’s crest appeared on the door’s monitor.

Something in his chest jumped pleasantly and he swallowed just the smallest swell of excitement. The last time he’d done this, he’d been in New Vegas on a bender and charged his father’s credits for a two-hour tumble that had turned into two days; his dad hadn’t talked to him for a month. To his surprise, there was still a little dirty bad wrong to it all, doing something the old man wouldn’t approve of even now, and as he waved at the door latch, he found his face lifting into a broad, unexpected grin.

“Come on in,” he said as the door peeled back.

“Hey,” the man in the doorway echoed. “I’m Buck.”

“No,” Tony said without meaning to, “you’re beautiful.”

The man--not much more than a kid, really, or maybe Tony was just getting old--ducked inside, his cheeks ticking up pink. “I, uh. Thanks.”

And he was. It wasn’t a line or a cheap come on half-remembered. He was about Tony’s height with the requested dark hair swept back from his face and tumbling to the tops of his shoulders. He had the face of an angel, if angels pouted and had eyes that could peer shyly down into your soul. There was a scratch of shadow around his jaw, on his chin, and he was dressed simply in soft-looking trousers that wound up his legs and a knee-length silken robe wrapped casually around him. He was, without question, the most breathtaking being that Tony had seen in his travels and he was also, confusingly, moving straight towards him and reaching out his hands, and--

“Please,” the kid said, winding his arms like pretty vines around Tony’s neck and tucked his face against Tony's throat, “please tell me you’re Tony. Because if I’ve gone to the wrong pod, whoever I’m supposed to be meeting is gonna have to fucking wait because you, daddy"--he sighed, a sound like sweet fire--"you're delicious.”

There was a word in Tony’s mouth, maybe ten-- _wait, this is not what I ordered_ or _you’re in the right room with the wrong goddamn idea_ \--but Buck, he pushed them all away with one kiss, one insolent sweep of his tongue.


End file.
